“I’ve got no desire to drive drunk,” says Amanda, “but I don’t think you’re going to get many people who are willing to give up their car keys.”

Before Kyle can respond, the doorbell rings. “I’ll get that!” Alex says, and moments later a flood of vaguely familiar people we’ve all sort of known since kindergarten trickle in.

“Make yourself at home,” Kyle says, but his voice is drowned out by laughter and banter, and soon, our new guests have found the kitchen and the beer.

After that, it’s a near-constant stream of people coming through the door. Some ring the doorbell. Others don’t. Someone helps themselves to Kyle’s parents’ sound system, and soon music is pumping through every room of the house.

Me, Hannah, and Clem laugh ourselves silly as we watch Kyle try to rope off the upstairs using an old winter scarf.

A few people from Prism seem a little startled by the crowd at first, but apparently underage drinking and the end of the school year are the ultimate unifying factors for teenagers everywhere.

“Am I at the right party?” a voice behind me asks.

I turn to find Tucker, freshly showered with still-damp hair and a six-pack of root beer dangling from his fingers.

Kyle rushes between us, one second away from asking someone to take their shoes off in the living room, when Tucker hands him the soda. “I wasn’t really sure what to bring, but I thought I should contribute.”

Kyle gasps, momentarily distracted from his mission. He clicks his tongue. “A host gift! How thoughtful! Let me put this on ice.”

Tucker shrugs and Kyle’s off again.

“Well, he’s going to love you forever and ever as long as you both shall live,” I say. “If you leave now, there might still be time to escape him.”

“Nah,” says Tucker. “I’ll take my chances.”

A swarm of guys led by Bryce walks past us and someone pats Tucker on the back.

“What’s up, man?” he asks, and bumps fists with basically the whole football team.

Once they’re gone, I hold my fist up. “’Sup, bro?”

Tucker goes to bump my fist, but instead his fingers snake around my wrist. He tugs me toward the back door. “Come on, let’s see what’s going on out here.”

He drags me behind him and I think my whole heart is in my throat, because a boy—no, Tucker Watson—is holding my hand in front of practically our whole class. I guess technically he’s leading me by the wrist, so maybe it doesn’t really count as hand-holding, but it mother-freaking counts for something, because from across the room where Clem and Hannah sit curled into each other on the couch with red cups in their hands, my sister points at me, her jaw slack.

Holy shit, she mouths.

Twenty-Five